


A Lasting Sort of Peace

by 9_of_Clubs



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A moment suspended in time, Fluff, M/M, Nostalgia, Post TWOTL, Sunbathing Hannibal, Sweet summer days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5519021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>What started as a whim about Hannibal sunbathing naked...became something a little bit more :)<br/><br/><i>In the brightness of sunshine, there is only him in his head, and in suspension, there is a curious kind of ease, which he once might have called peace, but now does not work too hard to define. It will hold or it won’t, beyond these easy moments, where they share spaces and in the silence of notions not discussed, grow together to fill all the ruined parts. </i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lasting Sort of Peace

**Author's Note:**

> For the Hannigram Holiday Exchange and the lovely mooseontheyouths.

It’s a lazy afternoon enwrapped in smooth, lapping, waves, and the salt drenched air, hazy with golden sunlight, puts him to sleep without any sort of intent. One minute he’s awake, languid limbed and thinking maybe he should let Hannibal know he’s taking a nap, the other said something about lunch, he recalls, distant, and Will only just thought to sit for a moment...But the next, it’s eyes shut and body heavy on the bed, the world spinning onward around him. Time loses itself to aimless trails, thoughts that twine, dancing, in and out of the next, images of blue waters and the drifting spicy scent of the places they’ve seen, the constant rhythm of waves in his bones. 

In the sky, the sun arches higher, and alone in the ocean, they float. 

When he wakes, there’s contentment folded along his skin, a drowsed kind of pleasure that still sits new against all the ragged edges that have been torn out of him. Adrift as they are, no specter looms over him for the moment, not the tempting kiss of death, nor the the haunting ghosts that pay visits now and again - call upon the living with their smiles. In the brightness of sunshine, there is only him in his head, and in suspension, there is a curious kind of ease, which he once might have called peace, but now does not work too hard to define. It will hold or it won’t, beyond these easy moments, where they share spaces and in the silence of notions not discussed, grow together to fill all the ruined parts. 

Sometimes he dares to think that maybe peace could last. 

Only the thrum of the water greets him as he makes his way out towards the fresh air. The little kitchen they have is silent and waiting, perfectly neat in the way that always pulls at something in him to make a mess, that stirs at pangs for lost things, but summons fondness all the same. He bypasses it, just now, lets it sit in silent anticipation, to wait a little longer for the curtains to be the drawn and the audience to take their place. 

Up the stairs, and still no signs of life, the usual spots vacated, no fussing figure examining all the intricacies of a boat with the prodding curiosity of a child, no striking silhouette along the horizon, no signs of Hannibal at all. 

They’d chosen a boat, maybe in part because it meant neither of them could run off in the night, mutual need of trust building for those points, not acknowledged exactly, but known as they know, and agreed upon. Still, he entertains a wry grin considering that Hannibal could always go overboard if he needed to get away. 

They both know how to fall, after all. 

Another moment of silence lingers, before he catches the strains of music between the crash of surf. A soft, lilting, aria that mixes with the breeze and carries, invites him with a trail of breadcrumbs and the whisper of strings along the curve of the boat and around. For no particular reason, as the sun warms the back of his neck, he quiets his footfalls, and creeps along behind it, hoping to catch something he doesn’t know exactly until he sees it.

Hannibal is stretched out along the smooth wood of the deck, head tilted up towards the sky, eyes closed, naked, limbs splayed long before him, back arched in a play at a stretch, the old lines of scars, and the still healing twist of wounds, fading in and out of his skin. He’s breathing in the ocean, breathing in the music from the CD player, pilfered from some small island town, breathing in the creak of wood, breathing in and exhaling. Will’s eyes find the steady movement of his ribs, the contraction and expansion of his chest as they see, comprehend, and catch. The rhythm tangles around him. 

He’s heard the heartbeat beneath that skin, felt the rush of air along his cheeks, but he doesn’t think he’s ever watched breath exist like this, the steady assurance of life in the contours of Hannibal’s body as it opens itself to the wide expanse of blue. His skin is bronzed now by the glow of rays, darkened into something more real, the wan pallor of prison brushing slowly away, and the skin stretches on forever, blazing, stealing greedily back what was taken from it - taking back Hannibal's space in the world. 

Unmistakably, he wants to touch it, to press his fingers against an arm, and find it beneath him, warmed and solid. 

And while he watches, in the just so that is the Hannibal way, there comes the barest tilt of jaw, back and around, a slight crack of eyes locating him, standing there, inhaling the open intimacy of the moment. For a breath, he debates turning around, leaving the bareness that he’s wandered into, that maybe he’s not sure if he’s ready to share. But there comes a slight brush of a smile, and the resuming of the previous position, everything back in place as though it had never shifted at all. Except it drenches all at once with the sudden air of invitation. The beckoning lingers - fades - allows him to do as he will. 

As the afternoon falls around them in gouts of endless time, he wanders over to Hannibal, sits, and silent, curves his fingers along sun drenched skin.

Sometimes, he dares to think that maybe peace could last.


End file.
